Mother of Pearl Set in Silver

Behind the external I listen,
an ear leaning in on itself
and the space where I go

to meet my mother.

Prayers of a mother waken
the daughter;  no words
but silent hands skillfully

kneading the teat
from its single rope of milk,
a seamless, glittering string

of pearls
clanging rhythmically
inside my silver skull;

gone now

like a season of flower
or the rolling, broken buried
shells beneath the sands

whispers at night
to the restless seas
and sad, grey clouds

"Duty, my daughter, 
is the quietness of soul 
not the deafening doubt 

that delays your chores."